sometimes i forget…to be a big old mess

20s

basically:  “hi, my name is chelsea, i’m 27 years old, and i’m a mess.” 

sometimes i forget that i’m allowed to be a big old heaping pile of a mess.

i have nothing figured out.  i don’t know what i want to do when i grow up, i don’t consider myself grown up, and i despise what i do now. i never have enough money.  i have an eternal mountain of laundry (clean and dirty combined) living on my floor.  we have a dresser as a counter top in our kitchen, and the dresser is filled with very old, very unopened mail. i have dirty dishes on top of the stove 50% of the time.  i’m writing a blog in the middle of my work day because i want to.  i always wear my heart on my sleeve.  i have a moldy clementine that resides next to my laptop at work, and there’s a good chance it will start to grow legs and walk away.  the list goes on my friends and i’m sure that i have struck a cord with at least one of you reading this.  

here’s the breakdown that i’m just beginning to realize.  these things are better than okay.  these things are who i am, and let’s face it, these things are who i will always be to some degree.   we will always be criticized for something…so why not own it and be proud of the most unconventional, inconvenient, inconsistent, and all around disastrous parts of who you are.  (BONUS: it will infuriate the people criticizing you)

i don’t even know the point i’m trying to make with this blog post, other than….take inventory of your own personal mess (it’s really liberating) and always, always allow yourself some room to fuck up, whether you’re in your twenties or eighties.

BE A MESSY FOOL EVERYONE!  and love yourself along the way- seemingly perfect people are no fun.

mess. mess. mess.  (just in case i haven’t used that word enough in the last 5 minutes.)

happy living y’all!

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